


You Make It Hard to Breathe

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Dwalin, Barista Thorin, Blood and Gore, Fluff and Angst, Gollum and Azog are hinted at, M/M, Not Happy, Sorry Not Sorry, Thorin Is an Idiot, also: manbuns, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin definitely does nOT have a crush on the curly-haired man that comes into his café almost every day. And he most certainly doesn't spend an embarrassing amount of time trying to ask him out. [Alternatively titled: "I've Waited for You (I Waited Too Long)"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make It Hard to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindzzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindzzz/gifts), [StrivingArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/gifts).



> Please heed the tags. I couldn't quite help myself, and you can blame [Lindzzz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindzzz/pseuds/Lindzzz) for her [reincarnation fic](http://linddzz.tumblr.com/post/118441884773/the-words-forever-caught-in-my-mouth) (this particular oneshot is based on her failed coffee shop section), and [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) for threatening my babies in [Son of A---](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3822802/chapters/8523700). I had to retaliate somehow.

It’s another typical day in Ered Luin Cafe. For Thorin, this means the scent of ground coffee beans, the sounds of laptop keyboards clicking, first dates chatting nervously, and businesspeople speaking animatedly into their phones; it’s the steady rhythm of filling styrofoam cups, swirling creams and caramels on top, and adding the occasional decoration for their recurring customers. It is also dodging Dwalin’s jabs whenever he gets lost in the daydreams involving his favorite customer, which often come with little warning and leave him slightly red and _definitely not “starry-eyed”, thank you Dwalin_.

The man had stood out from the beginning, his mop of golden, flyaway curls and wine red jacket making him a unique sight among the crisp black suits often worn by the businessmen that frequented the shop. It had been quite clear that the man was a businessman, judging by the rapidfire dressing-down that the soul on the other end of his phone conversation was receiving, and yet he was unlike any white collar worker Thorin had ever seen (in part because his collar was not, in fact, white, but rather a warm cream that went perfectly with the olive green waistcoat that accentuated his-- _fuck **off** , Dwalin_).

But what had surprised Thorin most was the man’s smile; though his eyes were tired and worried, he had offered a genuine grin at Thorin when he had received his order, then whisked himself out the door before Thorin had time to blink.

And he had come back, for nigh on close to a year, now. Usually on his phone with some person or another, yet always pausing the conversation to ask for his order and pay, always offering that small but kind smile to whomever was behind the counter (and Thorin made sure to be on the receiving it as much as possible, though he would vehemently deny this if asked), and almost always disappearing with his coffee before Thorin can even open his mouth.

On rare occasions, he will sit in the shop, order one of their baked goods with his drink, and pull out a leather-bound notebook. When he does this, he’ll always turn up his head and flash a quick smile when given his pastry (he’s particularly fond of lemon cakes), but just as quickly return to writing in his notebook. Sometimes Thorin is tempted to talk to him, to ask a question, but the sight of looped handwriting appearing from beneath the pen stops him; the man is always engrossed in his work, and it seems to provide him the peace that is always absent whenever he rushes through the café.

“Lover-boy, check your six,” Dwalin says loudly, slapping Thorin’s arm with a towel and startling him out of his thoughts. Thorin growls at him but peeks out of the corner of his eye, seeing a royal blue jacket appear in the doorway as the shop bell rings.

“Oh look, he’s got the manbun thing going again,” Dwalin notes casually, though Thorin detects the smirk in his voice. Without quite meaning to, Thorin’s head turns a little more to catch sight of those unruly curls pulled into a tiny ponytail, and he feels himself turn red even before he feels Dwalin grinning smugly at him. “Cute, isn’t it,” his bastard of a cousin remarks, and Thorin practically snarls at him to _shut up_ as he moves to the counter and wills his blush to go away.

There’s no phone today, but the man wastes no time in giving Thorin his order and moving to the side. Thorin snatches the cup from Dwalin before he messes up the name, mortification turning him redder as he remembers the time his cousin had replaced the B’s in Bilbo’s name with D’s. Instead, Dwalin is left to catch the next customer as Thorin abandons the counter to make Bilbo’s coffee. He calls out the order nervously, despite doing this a thousand times before, and Bilbo takes the cup with his customary grin, once again disappearing into the world as Thorin tries to calm his heartbeat after that brief, accidental touch.

And the days go on. Sometimes Bilbo is dressed for business, sometimes more casual, sometimes with his hair up, sometimes with it down. There’s a period during August where his hair is cut so short that it loses its curl, and Thorin has to fight down a complaint; eventually it grows back to its wild mess. He isn’t sure what’s so captivating about that hair - maybe because it demands to be free, ignoring social customs that expect it to be cut or, heaven forbid, gelled. His heart seems to love it, though, and tries to race to its death whenever it’s either tied back or more wind-ruffled than usual.

“For the love of all things holy, Thorin, just ask him out,” Dwalin grumbles repeatedly. And he tries, he really does. He thinks of things he could say, introductions he could make; he considers writing his number on Bilbo’s coffee cup (then decides it’s too cliche), or giving him extra lemon cakes, or, or…

The truth is that there’s never a good moment. Bilbo is constantly rushing out the door, or focused on his writing, or Thorin barely stumbles out a single word before giving up and handing over the coffee. There are days when he works himself up before going to the cafe, taking extra care in tying his hair up and applying an extra dash of cologne. It’s honestly embarrassing that he goes to such lengths; after several tries and failures, even Dwalin has stopped snorting when Thorin comes into the shop freshened up - and that should really show how pathetic his crush on the golden-haired man is, but one of his ancestors must have been really stupid and stubborn, because he keeps trying.

There was the time that Thorin was seconds away from writing something on the napkin that went with Bilbo’s lemon cakes, and the time he began to say “would you…” and ended up asking if Bilbo wanted another pastry, since they were on sale. He had once stood next to Bilbo’s table for nearly five minutes as the man wrote in his notebook, trying to remember the words he had practiced in the mirror that morning, only to give up and return to the counter, red-faced, after noticing the amused and slightly pitying looks that other patrons were giving him.

There had been one particularly awful incident when Bilbo had been pestered almost nonstop by a rather slimy man. Eventually Thorin had told the man to leave, taken one look at Bilbo’s haggard but grateful expression, and immediately thrown out the idea of a dinner invitation. He’d instead come back with a lemon cake on the house and hoarded the tiny laugh that had burst from Bilbo’s lips away for later consideration.

He knows he must always look a sight, glowering and blushing at the same time. Coupled with messy hair buns and the smell of bitter coffee, he’s never truly surprised that Bilbo doesn’t spare more than a passing glance, since Thorin has never really given him a reason to. It has come to a point where he’s not entirely sure what he would do if he managed to get that invitation out; or worse yet, if Bilbo agreed.

But one fateful, somewhat miserable spring day, he has his chance.

The weather had been unkind since that morning - not particularly cold, but a constant drizzle had left the world grey, and the customers that come in were huddled deep in their lapels and shaking water out of their umbrellas. It's one of those days to curl up in a nook with a good book and a warm mug, which many people, including Thorin’s unattainable crush, have done. The atmosphere in the cafe is cozy and welcoming, a beacon of light guiding wet souls into the warm embrace of light chatter and hot drinks, the smell of coffee constantly permeating the air.

It stays that way until closing time, as happier patrons gradually trickle out of the cafe, ready to brave the elements. Thorin and Dwalin begin wiping down tables, removing coffee stains and crumbs as the sky outside begins to darken.

“Thorin,” Dwalin calls, and he looks up to see his cousin waving a familiar leather-bound notebook. He hurries over, taking the journal with great care. “Must’ve left it behind,” Dwalin surmises, folding his arms.

Thorin’s fingers feather over the cover, an unnameable but rather insistent sensation his chest. Finally, he opens to front and sees written: _Property of Bilbo Baggins. If found, please return to #3, Bag Shot Lane_.

Before he can start caressing it like some fanatic, Dwalin nudges him in the arm. Looking up, he sees his cousin’s raised eyebrow. “Well? Go get it to him. And ask him to dinner, for God’s and all our sakes.”

Ten minutes later, Thorin is in a long black coat and asking the driver to take him to Bag Shot Lane. He shakes out his mane of hair and ties it back again, hoping that the rain doesn’t make it curl beyond manageability.

Before he can even decide what to say, Thorin finds himself standing in front of a set of small houses squished between two apartment complexes. Steeling his nerve, he strides up the steps to the door marked #3 and raps his knuckles soundly against the door.

 _I hit it too hard_. He thinks to himself, realizing he must have sounded like a demanding solicitor. _Shut up, it’s raining outside. I needed to make sure he heard it_. At least, that’s what he hopes Bilbo Baggins will think.

After several agonizing seconds, the door opens to reveal Bilbo in baggy grey sweats and a faded T-shirt, overall looking far more bed-mussed than is good for Thorin’s health.

Bilbo frowns. “Thorin?” he asks, shivering slightly as a gust of wind blows through the street. His eyes flicker briefly over Thorin’s shoulder, frown deepening, but then they move back to his face.

“How did you...the nametag. Right.” Thorin realizes, both pleased and embarrassed that Bilbo knows his name.

“Um,” Bilbo hesitates, and Thorin realizes that he’s been staring at him for several seconds without a word. “Is there...something I can help you with?”

“Sorry,” Thorin stammers, pulling the notebook out of his coat. “You left this at the shop.”

Bilbo looks startled by the appearance of his notebook. “Oh, I hadn't even noticed it was gone," he mutters, taking the notebook. "Thank you for bringing it here, especially in this rain.” There it is, that little half-grin that Thorin has seen a thousand times and still can’t get over. He finds himself staring again, wondering if there’s a way to bring it back.

Bilbo’s toes, which are bare, Thorin now notes, drum against the carpet. “Well, ah, thank you for this, and uh--”

“Would you go to dinner with me?” It’s a miraculously complete sentence, ruined by the speed and abruptness with which it is delivered. Bilbo blinks, brow once again furrowing in confusing.

“I’m...I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you would like to have dinner with me,” Thorin repeats, carefully enunciating his words in an attempt to keep from stammering. “It’s a question I meant to ask some time ago, but…” There’s a blush on his cheeks, he can bloody feel it.

Bilbo’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds, surprise still on his face. But then he grins, adding a tiny huff of laughter as he meets Thorin’s gaze, and oh, _hell_ , he’s been holding out all this time. His eyes light up as laughter lines crinkle around them, and his lips stretch wide to reveal beautiful white teeth and oh, Thorin suddenly can’t find breath.

“I think I’d like that,” Bilbo replies, the smile still gracing his features.

“Really?” He still can’t breathe, and that should probably be a problem; his chest feels too tight, and his vision is swimming a little - or maybe that’s just his head, he can’t tell. Electrifying joy runs through his veins like fire, and only the promise of Bilbo’s answer drags him back to Earth.

Bilbo chuckles lightly, another addicting sound, and Thorin has to catch himself from leaning in. “Yes, really. Where…” suddenly the lightness in his voice trails off and his smile fades. He looks once again over Thorin’s shoulder, squinting slightly.

Thorin is about to turn around when several things happen at once: he’s dragged forward with surprising strength and stumbles over the threshold of Bilbo’s door; there’s a loud crack, like the backfire of a car; something whips by his face, grazing it and Bilbo’s curls before burying itself in the wall behind him. He falls gracelessly to the floor of Bilbo’s home, and a second bang rings out as Bilbo slams the door shut before stumbling backward.

“What--” Thorin starts, but is silenced by shock as he looks at Bilbo. The man has become inexplicably pale, except for the appearance of bright red staining the fingers that clutch at his chest. Thorin stares uncomprehending, but flinches suddenly as Bilbo opens his mouth, coughs, and red, red, red gurgles out.

He’s shaking, fumbling for the phone in his pocket, no, his _other_ pocket; three numbers pressed and dialed as he stares. Words tumble out of him, but he can’t hear them; the only sound registering is the labored, gurgled breathing that comes from Bilbo’s mouth. He presses closer, one hand fluttering over Bilbo, trying to gather cloth to help stem the bleeding.

“Should’ve…” Bilbo’s attempt to speak is quickly silenced by more blood; it’s streaming out of the corners of his mouth like some grisly movie, and--

“Shh sh sh, Bilbo, breathe, just breathe,” Thorin babbles, pressing tighter and pretending he doesn’t hear the whimper of pain the man releases. The operator is speaking to him, words that are supposed to calm him and tell him that ambulance is on its way and everything will be alright, but it’s not, it’s not alright, when did it happen, one minute he was blushing and catching his breath, and now it’s Bilbo that can’t breathe, that can’t bring in air without losing life blood, there’s so much blood it’s moving so fast too fast the shirt is soaked--

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Thorin urges fervently, as the other's head slumps to the side and his breathing quiets, no strength left to cough. “No, no, no,” he lifts Bilbo’s face with both hands, staining his cheeks with bloody prints, and this isn’t how he’d imagined he would hold Bilbo, not begging and pleading for him to open his eyes and focus his gaze and _breathe_ , Bilbo, keep breathing, please.

The head in his hands lifts on its own, blue-grey eyes somewhat hazy but definitely looking at him, and Thorin could weep with joy. The lips beneath his fingers move soundlessly for a few seconds, then Bilbo’s voice, though hoarse from the blood, speaks loud enough to hear:

“Should’ve, mmph...should’ve asked sooner,” there’s a smile, that damned gentle smile comes back, directed solely at him.

“No, no...I’m not too late, Bilbo, I’m not...you’re going to be fine, okay? The medics are on their way, they’ll just…” he trails off as he becomes aware of a weak tapping on his arm. Looking down, he sees Bilbo’s hand softly but insistently patting him.

“Thorin, the man…”

“Man…?”

“The man, the one with...with the gun. The…” Bilbo grunts in pain, head thudding back against the wall. His eyes close as he mutters, “he was white.”

Thorin frowns and opens his mouth, but Bilbo’s eyes snap open. “No, Thorin. _White_. Not white, but white white...like, ghost white. And bald. Bald and…” he trails off again, eyes drifting up to the ceiling, and Thorin’s blood runs cold as he thinks of the only man that fits Bilbo's description. An old enemy.

A long exhale draws his attention again, and he turns back to Bilbo. “Hey, hey, come on,” he urges, lightly shaking Bilbo’s head. And recoils.

It’s utterly limp, no hint of muscle or strength in the neck. “Bilbo, no, hang on,” his voice is more urgent now, giving Bilbo’s cheeks light slaps and desperately ignoring the eyes that gaze emptily at the ceiling. “Wait, no, Bilbo, no...no, come on, they’re almost here, they’re...the medics, they’re coming, they’ll fix...they’ll fix this, just hold _on_ , they’re coming, I promise…” A sob bubbles up and bursts, stretching into a keen as he brings a bloodied hand up to cover his mouth. He leans forward, resting his hand against the wall by Bilbo’s head, stroking the curls he’s dreamt about for so long. “I promise, Bilbo, please. I promise they’re coming,” he begs in a broken voice, shaking and feeling tears fall down his cheeks.

He rests his head above Bilbo’s, nose buried in the curls in an attempt to block out the scent of copper that threatens to suffocate him. His lips whisper nonsense against Bilbo’s forehead as his thumb runs mindless circles in the golden hair. That’s how he stays for a long time, half-curled around a lifeless body as if he could somehow protect it, too late; he stays there when the sounds of sirens come closer, and like that as uniformed officers enter the hall and find him there; and he stays like that long after the body itself has been removed, curled against the wall with a blanket around his shoulders, staring at nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. The fic that will get me killed. Yep.
> 
> (Gollum is the creepy perv bugging Bilbo. Also, the stupid and stubborn ancestor is Durin I)


End file.
